


Traveler's Family

by Princess_Cocoa



Series: Tales of a Traveling Ginger [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Magical Realism, Minor Violence, Traveler!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/pseuds/Princess_Cocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're friends, Martin and Douglas - they should be able to share painful experiences with one another.</p>
<p>Even if such an experience happened thousands of years ago.</p>
<p>
  <b>Second part of Tales of a Traveling Ginger: won't make sense without first reading the previous story</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello, hello! Before you read the story, you should know a few things.**
> 
> **1\. This is the second part of my Traveler!Martin series. In case you didn't read the summary, just know now that this probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the first story.**
> 
> **2\. This installment is...different from the last one, to say the least. We're getting a glimpse of Martin's past and, while I wasn't planning on it, it ended up really _really_ angsty. I debated over which 'violence' tag to use but because it's a subject that only creeps up for a short time, I think we're ok with minor. If, however, you read it and think i should change it, let me know.**
> 
> **3\. My AP World History class hardly talked about ancient Indo-European cultures, and by hardly, I mean not at all. Meaning that this story is a culmination of about a week of research. Please remember that it's fiction, but, if you see any TERRIBLE historical errors, let me know and I'll change it.**
> 
> **And that's it! Sorry that was a bit much but I don't want anyone going in unprepared :). Enjoy the story~**

He wishes he could say he's used to this by now - used to the darkness, the void of nothingness - but he’s not.

He’s falling. Always, always falling.

He’s suffocating: the darkness around him like an oppressing hand, pushing the air from his lungs.

He’s terrified, even though he knows he shouldn’t be. He knows he’ll never land, at least not in the conventional sense. (Though sometimes he wishes he would).

The atramentous vacuum covers him, bit by bit. He watches it consume him as he plummets to an unknown destination.

Part of his mind is interested, as it always has been; where is he going? What is this ebony blanket meant to represent? Part of his mind is frantic, still scared (always so scared) of the destination. Where is he falling to? Will he live? Part of his mind - a very small part - is bored. He knows the drill, knows how this will end, how this was _supposed_ to end.

The darkness slithers up his body, taking with it his abdomen, his chest, his neck. Finally, finally, it reaches his face. It smothers his mouth and nose, but that’s ok: he was already suffocating. He can handle this - it’s a means to an end.

It circles around his eyes and as he closes them he can sense something solid beneath him, rapidly rising to meet him.

He lands.

.

.

.

And bolts up, panting.

It’s only then that he realizes he has a headache. It’s not the usual kind, the kind that softly taps against his head, not asking for much attention throughout the day. Today it’s blaring.

His phone’s alarm screeches alive, alerting him to the fact that it’s time to get out of bed and go fly. (Because of course there’s a flight today, and it’s an early one too.)

He glares half heartedly at the cheap piece of plastic, willing time to back up and allow him to lay in bed for a few more minutes following his panicked, restless sleep.

He sighs and reaches over, flipping open the decrepit phone to turn off the alarm.

It’s 5:47 in the morning and already Martin Crieff can tell it’s not going to be a good day.

* * *

He trudges into the portacabin precisely on time, as usual. He’s thankful that Arthur is otherwise occupied writing...something on the whiteboard-cum-calendar across the room.

Martin sits heavily in his chair, equally thankful that the client is running late - it gives him a few moments of much needed rest.

It’s been quite a while since he’s had a dream, and they always left him more drained than before he’d gone to bed. Honestly, it seems patently unfair. At least when he's willingly within his plane he awakes well rested.

When he ends up there by necessity, however, it's much the same situation as when he has a dream.

It isn’t often that he gets to go there willingly, though. It is, to him, a vacation of sorts. A way for him to completely relax for however many hours he wishes. He’s only able to do it when he has a few days off. And even then he can only do it when he has enough extra cash to at least go to a motel where he can sleep for a few days where others wouldn’t check on him.

It’s completely worth the the money, though. The ability to escape to his sanctuary is one of the few things about his predicament that he loves. It’s a place that’s peaceful and completely painless. Within his world he can control everything - the world, the time period, the weather.

Well.

Almost everything.

He’s still unsure as to how Douglas ended up within his world. He suspects it has something to do with his inherent stubbornness and natural inclination to be _in the know_. Frankly, he doesn’t much care. It was...nice. Yes. It was nice having a friend there at that time. Usually he doesn’t mind the isolation - revels in it, actually - but situations like that one are hard, even after all this time.

He loves his plane, loves being able to get away from the tragedies of the world for a bit. But when he’s sent there due to disaster - more or less unwillingly - it’s never been quite the same. And now that he knows someone could potentially be there waiting, now that he knows what it’s like to not be so wholly alone in that situation...Well.   

He’s grateful for Douglas’s appearance last time and he’ll be happy to see him again, should a similar situation arise.

Douglas, of course, chooses that very moment to glide into the room looking like he owns the world; as if he’s on time and everyone else is merely early.

Arthur jumps at the sound of the door and turns around. “Douglas,” he shouts and turns to look at Martin as well, “Oh, and Skip too! I didn’t even notice you there, Skip. Mum told me to be useful so I thought I’d fill in the calendar.”

Douglas hangs his coat on the rack and takes a seat at his desk before he responds. “I do believe, Arthur,” he begins in his usual part-contemptuous, part-amused voice, “that the calendar was filled in by your mother at the start of the month.”

Arthur nods. “Well yeah, but not completely. See,” he asks, pointing enthusiastically at one of his scribbles.

Martin stands to get a closer look, ignoring the vertigo incited by his headache at the sudden change in equilibrium. He steps next to Arthur and takes a moment to decipher the steward’s handwriting. Arthur has added an event to each day and it takes a moment for him to realize the pattern.

“Arthur,” he sighs, “the calendar is for professional matters only.”

“But these are professional, Skip! It’s hard to do good work when you’re not happy, and these things make you happy.”

By now Douglas has joined them at the calendar and is reading them as well. He chuckles and pats Arthur on the shoulder. “Well of course,” he exclaims, “I never go into work on a Tuesday without-” he squints at the calendar once more, “taking a warm bath. I’m surprised Sir was unaware of such weekly protocol; for one cannot possibly hope to fly a plane on a Friday without first tossing an apple around for a bit.”

“See Skip,” Arthur says, beaming, “Douglas gets it. And I even made all the same events on the same days of the week so you wouldn’t forget. Fridays, like today, are for apple tossing. Saturdays are for playing yellow car all day. Sundays are for whatever you want...”

Martin grimaces and nods, backing away from the calendar. With his hands raised in the air he acquiesces, “Alright, Arthur, alright. You can keep them up there but make sure you leave room for actual appointments.”

“Right-o, Skip,” he says as he turns back to the calendar.

Martin watches him for a moment, smiling softly, before turning towards the counter to make some tea.

A few moments later, Carolyn’s door slams open, jarring the surrounding walls as well as Martin’s head.

“He’s _late_ ,” she announces, as if it wasn’t a glaringly obvious fact. “Even later than _you_ , Douglas.”  

“Why, judging by your accusatory tone of voice, it’s as if you expect me to change my ways. I thought ours was a relationship that transcended such meaningless conventions as punctuality.”

“Oh can it, Douglas, I’d rather not listen to any meaningless drivel at such an early hour.”

Martin chooses this moment to cut in, “Well did he call or email? I already submitted the schedule to Carl and if he’s going to be too much later I don’t thi-”

“Of course he hasn’t talked to me,” Carolyn responds, effectively cutting Martin off, “or else I wouldn’t be out here talking about it with you lot.” She sighs and looks at the clock. “Only because he’s such an important customer, we’ll give him another hour. Douglas, go talk to Carl and tell him what’s going on. Martin, fix the paperwork whenever he arrives. And Arthur, make us some-,” she pauses, finally noticing the calendar. She closes her eyes, exasperated, before continuing. “Arthur, finish making the tea, I’m sure Martin’s screwed it up somehow.”

“I have not!”

But Carolyn ignores him and returns to her office, leaving them to their tasks.


	2. Chapter 2

The customer does, eventually, show up: almost an hour later, to the minute. He breezes in, spewing apology after apology and shaking every hand he can find at least three times. They get into the air a short time later and arrive in New York just in time for breakfast in the Big Apple, thanks to the time difference.

Martin is exhausted, due to the ridiculous combination of a glaring headache and slight jet lag. He takes the news that he and Douglas are sharing a room without much complaint, readily accepting the key card when it’s handed to him.

He ignores Douglas’s sniping about Carolyn’s penny-pinching as well as Arthur’s excited talking about the Empire State Building and heads straight for the room. 

*

When he steps out of the bathroom, changed and ready to sleep, he finds Douglas sitting on his bed. 

“Sir looks as if he’s not feeling well. I presume the headache is still on,” Douglas asks.

“Yes, it is. I hate headaches which is why I’m going to bed to sleep it off, as you can see,” Martin responds. He’s not in the mood to chat with Douglas. 

Suddenly, Douglas’s smirk morphs into something resembling concern. “Martin there’s not a...” he pauses, seemingly unsure, “not a _reason_ for this headache, is there?”

Martin halts his descent onto his mattress to eye Douglas wearily. “There probably is, as always. But today is...Well, it’s just worse so I’m going to sleep it off.”

“For how long?”

“I’m sorry?”

Douglas looks uncertain. “I mean that the last time you weren’t feeling well you were unconscious for days. We do have a flight in three days, I just want to know if I have to make up an excuse to tell Carolyn. Your mysterious ‘bout of illness’ was strange to her just the once, but should it happen again, I don’t believe she’ll be so accepting.”

Martin sighs; the incident in India had been months ago and to be honest, they hadn’t really talked on the subject at all since then. “I’m not sure. It’s not that bad so if I’m out it won’t be for a whole three days straight.” He smirks, “You’re not worried, are you, Mr. Sky God?”

Douglas snorts. “Of course not. Why should I be? It’s not as if you’re the physical representation of our world or anything,” he says, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. He meets Martin’s eyes and finally his bluster leaves him. “Fine. Now savor these words, for I won’t say them again, but: I do worry. I don’t care how old you are, you still seem younger than me and, frankly, you act like it over half the time anyway. I just want you to remember that you can talk to me, Martin. You understand?”

Martin considers his words for a moment and smiles, it’s not often he gets to see Douglas be so sincere. “I understand, Douglas.”

Douglas nods and stands. “Good. Now sleep, you look as if you’ve been raised from the dead.” He looks over Martin once more. “Speaking of which, do you need some Paracetamol? I have some in my bag.”

“No,” Martin says as he slides into bed. “It never helps. Best thing for it is to sleep it off as quickly as possible,” he explains.

“Alright. In that case I’m taking Arthur out to the Empire State Building, per Her Highness's orders; apparently she’s ‘seen all of New York already and has no desire to see it all again’. I’ll leave you to your nap or state of catatonia - whatever it is you do.”

Martin waves his hand and closes his eyes.

* * *

He wakes lying in a prairie of wild grass. He recognizes it as the steppe he lived on as a child. He ends up here often, with the breeze blowing lightly through his ginger hair. 

He sighs. If he’s here, it means he’ll be asleep for a bit longer than he’d originally anticipated. 

He plucks a nearby flower and begins pulling its petals, silently lamenting over the fact that he’ll likely be here and then asleep for the entirety of his time in New York. He’d so been looking forward to seeing a bit of the city. 

He supposes he should get up and do something - he has a whole universe that he can observe, after all. He ponders on it for a few more minutes.

No, he thinks. He’ll sit here for awhile. 

Besides, if he stays still, it’ll be easier for Douglas to find him. 

If he shows up at all, that is.  


	3. Chapter 3

Douglas discovers a few things while out of the hotel that night.

The first: New York is a filthy city, at least the part they are staying in. They've never stayed within the city itself before and for this trip, Carolyn had made it out to be a grand gesture - a special treat on her part.

It's not. 

The second is that the Empire State Building really isn't all that empirical. In fact, it reminds him a bit of Martin - a miniature replica of its surrounding brethren, trying to make itself look tall. 

Except now, he’s come to realize, if Martin really wanted to, he wouldn't have any trouble seeming larger than life.

He wonders, briefly, what would happen if Martin revealed himself to others. Would he be taken away? Would he find that there are others like him?

Which brings him to his third discovery: he's not at all fond of the emotion of worry. 

He hasn’t thought much of Martin's predicament since that first time in the hospital months ago - has chosen not to, more like. Now, though, with the prospect of Martin going comatose yet again, he has to admit it to himself: he is worried. 

He’s certainly no stranger to concern, he does have a daughter after all. But this is most certainly different. The worst part is that he shouldn't be feeling like this. Martin has been going through this for... A very long time. Usually alone, by the sound of it. 

Douglas simply can’t help but to see Martin as anyone else but the blundering little captain that he's always worked with; the pilot who's very personality screams "take care of me please I can't on my own". 

He realizes, of course, that Martin isn’t any different now than he was before. He truly believes that Martin was honest with him regarding his personality, was honest about the fact that he never puts on some façade, especially around them.  

It makes him wonder what's happened through Martin's extensive life to make him so inherently awkward. It makes him wonder what other parts of Martin's personality have developed over the years into what they are today.

Most of all, it makes him want to go back to the hotel and check on him - see if the man is still sleeping.

Unfortunately, he can't. Arthur is excited beyond belief to be anywhere but the hotel, and when Arthur's in this kind of mood, there's no talking him down. 

So he takes it in stride. All. Ten. Hours of it.

Arthur is a great boy, of course, but Carolyn can watch over her own son next time he’s in such a mood. 

“And here we are,” he says as he points to the door two down from his own.

“Thanks, Douglas. It was fun right? Isn’t New York just brilliant?”

“Oh yes,” he drawls, pulling his key card from his pocket. “Brilliant is exactly the word I’d use to describe it.”

He watches Arthur close the door behind him before he turns and walks to his room. He feels completely calm as the light turns green above the handle, thereby allowing him access. Of course, that’s until he sees that Martin is lying in the exact spot he left him, completely unconscious.

He rushes over and tries to rouse him. He’s unpleasantly reminded of the time months ago when he was in the exact same predicament. After about thirty seconds of relentless shoulder shaking he gives it up as a lost cause. 

Douglas leans back and sits on the floor, back flat against the neighbouring bed. He rests his head against the mattress and watches Martin for a bit. He suspects he’ll never get used to this, no matter how many times it happens in the future - just because he’s aware of the situation now doesn’t mean he’s at all comfortable with it.

He just hopes he’ll be able to get to Martin and help him like he did before. 

He stands and readies himself for bed. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to return to Martin’s little sanctuary but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try.


	4. Chapter 4

He always looks to the sky when he first arrives, always tries to gauge what state Martin has found himself in based on its colour.

Today, however, there is no sky. At least, not in the traditional sense. 

He can’t look away, not immediately. He’s unsure of what he’s seeing; he imagines it’s a supernova.  

It’s moving in slow motion, the indigo and claret streaks of light moving gradually away from one another. Despite this, it looks angry. It looks as if it’s pushing to move quicker but is being forced to only spread haltingly. 

The sight consumes the entire sky. The clouds of hydrogen and helium and carbon and whatever else stretch on past the horizons all around him. The light from the explosion illuminates the entire landscape, revealing that he’s not at all alone. 

He lowers his eyes to find Martin watching him, a small breeze ruffling his hair. 

“Looks like last time wasn’t a fluke, then,” he says and smiles. 

Douglas smiles in return, allowing the relief that he feels at having made it back here to absorb him. “I take it this is your doing then,” he asks and nods up to the exploding star above them.

Martin shrugs, “Watching dark clouds slowly turn lighter can get boring after awhile.”

Douglas hums in agreement and surveys the landscape around him. It’s unlike the others before in its simplicity; he’s standing in hilly grassland interspersed with various flowers and nothing more.

“I was born around here,” Martin says.

Douglas’s eyes open wide as they meet Martin’s. Somehow the idea that this place is in a way special to Martin makes him feel as if he’s treading on sacred ground. 

“Ah,” he says; he’s not quite sure how to respond to that.

Martin nods and lowers himself to the ground. “When I was born,” he starts, “in fact, up until I turned thirty two, I didn’t know who...well, _what_ I was.”

Douglas joins him on the ground. He recognizes the beginning of a story when he hears one. He’s surprised, though: even with all the stories he’d heard from Martin before, none of them had been too personal. All of them had been about others that he’d met during his travels. Now, he realizes, that’s all they were. Martin never described how he felt about those other people, what his relation to them was. Nothing. 

He discovers that he’s eager to hear more about Martin himself. 

Martin turns his face upwards, watching the slow dispersal of elements above them. “I was born during the time of the Neolithic era,” he begins, “into a Germanic tribe. One of those ancient Indo-European migrations that I’m sure you’ve forgotten about ever reading of...”


	5. Chapter 5

Mahthildis had her third and final child at the age of 19, not that she was aware of that fact - age wasn’t exactly an important factor to the people of her tribe. 

She knew from the first moment that she saw him that he was special. He was born with skin paler than the clouds that flew lazily above them. And once he was cleaned and presented to her, she saw that he had a single tuft of orange hair: hair like fire, unlike anyone else before him. 

Her husband said that his unique look must mean something, must be a good sign - perhaps that he was a gift from the gods. They presented the babe to the rest of the tribe shortly after he was born. Huldric, his father, named him Othamar. 

~_*_~

Douglas snickers, despite the mood of the story. 

Martin smiles in return. “Sometimes I think I should’ve kept that name,” he says.

Douglas laughs in full now, “Othamar. And I thought it was impossible to tease you more than I already do.”

“I think you’re forgetting the time period. Those were days where name was important - its meaning could define your life.”

“So what does that one mean, then?”

Martin hold up two fingers. “It means two things. One is famous, in reference to my looks, of course.”

“The second?”

Martin hesitates for a moment. “Wealth and fortune,” he finally says a few seconds later, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Douglas raises an eyebrow at that. “It’s certainly ironic, to say the least.”

Martin hums. “Now, yes. Back then, not so much.”

~_*_~

Their tribe was a large one, in comparison to others that had passed through their area. Because of that, they didn’t move as much as others and were able to maintain good pieces of land when they did; most others didn’t want to have to fight with so many people. 

Huldric was, essentially, the leader of their group - he was born into the role, his name said as much. He was only a year older than his wife but looked as if he were forty. Times were quickly changing for the Germanic tribe: more and more people were moving through their area. To where, he was unsure, but he was uncertain as to what it meant. It left him uneasy, stuck with a paranoia that he could never quite shake.

To his family, he was stern yet loving - as loving as any twenty-something could be while trying to also watch over a whole village of people.

He tried to teach his firstborn son the way to best watch over his tribe, the way to best protect them from potential threats. He tried to teach him all the basics as early as he could so that he might grow up to be wise and to lead his fellow people to peace, when necessary. 

He left the care of his daughter to his wife, as was the custom. And only a few years after Othamar was born, she was made the wife of one of the strongest men in the tribe. In return he received several sheep and a new cart for his oxen, a fact that made him extremely proud. 

He died shortly after the marriage of his daughter, when his son was only just a small child - little more than a toddler. He was unable to teach him much. However, he imparted one very important lesson on the boy that stuck with him for centuries afterwards. 

Othamar wasn’t to let anyone stand in his way, no matter what. Should he want something, he should have it.

~_*_~

“I should suppose that those were the words you held to heart while making your way into a pilot’s seat?”

Martin nods. “My father was a big believer in the rights of a noble member of society, though that’s not exactly how he would have put it. I mean, there wasn’t exactly some huge, set hierarchy at that time. But he was proud of his lineage, despite its lack of importance. Very proud.”

Douglas looks over Martin again, trying to see a, well, a prince, for lack of a better word. 

It’s not something he can imagine.

~_*_~

Huldric left the tribe and any of the fortunes that he wasn’t buried with to his oldest son. To Othamar, he left his finest horse and a crude ring, a relic stolen from a tribe that they’d defeated long before his birth. Because both boys lived together, though, their possessions were shared between them, anyway.

Theirs wasn’t a tribe that sacrificed the wives of the leader when he died, and for that, Othamar was grateful. Mahthildis was allowed to live and care for her youngest son while her oldest ran the tribe in his father’s stead. 

Following the death of their father, his brother tried his best to teach Othamar the ways of the tribe and how to be a man, but in the end, the majority of lessons learned by Othamar were ones from Mahthildis. She paid him special attention, singing her song to him every night as he fell asleep and teaching him the benefits of kindness alongside those important traits of manhood. Because of this, he grew to be gentler than most of the boys in his tribe, however, due to his position in the society, he wasn’t judged as others may have been. 

Othamar’s overall uniqueness didn’t end at his personality, nor his looks, though. Throughout his childhood he experienced terrible headaches. The first terrified his mother. One of Huldric’s other wives had lost four children to such things. She’d been blessed by the gods with three long-living, healthy children: she wasn’t ready for things to change. 

Yet, two days after it started, it stopped. 

Nearly a week later, the tribe learned of the decimation of a neighboring tribe by a strange illness. 

His brother, having adopted some of their father's paranoia, immediately saw the correlation. The tribe, under his command, immediately packed up and headed west, most arriving safely. 

Huldric, Mahthildis decided, was correct in his assumption that their son was a gift from the gods. His headaches persisted but never killed him. They were able to foretell disaster and as soon as one would hit, Othamar’s brother would take the tribe even farther west. 

~_*_~

“You got all these awful headaches, but never came back here,” Douglas asks, indicating the world around them.

“Nope. Never. Nor was I aware of the fact that I could. When I was born, I was just like any other child. I’d completely forgotten about everything I’d experienced during the centuries before.”

“Or chosen not to remember,” Douglas mutters.

“Yes,” Martin agrees, looking up into the sky, “There’s always that.”

~_*_~

Mahthildis died a few months later, at an exceptionally old age - over thirty years old. 

Once they’d mourned her death, Othamar was immediately presented with a wife. 

Her name was Linza and she was extremely beautiful. They waited some time before having children, the first of which they named Amalric. Linza died in childbirth with their second son, whom he named Adelmar. Both children looked like their mother with hardly any resemblance to him, not that he minded, he’d grown to love Linza and her beauty.

~_*_~

Douglas blanches. 

Martin smirks. “It was customary to marry young and have a lot of children.”

“I know. I do have some knowledge of history after all. I just-,” for once, he’s at a loss for words. 

“You just didn’t expect me to have any, right?”

“I suppose that’s correct.”

Martin nods and turns his head to the ground, seemingly lost in thought. 

Douglas ponders Martin’s words for a moment. “By young,” he starts.

“I mean that I was about fourteen when Linza became my wife. The average life expectancy at that time was twenty. My family, though, was blessed with longevity, apparently.”

“Right...”

“You’re uncomfortable.”

Douglas nods, now is no time to be dishonest. “I’ve read history books, certainly, but never actually thought about it enough to put it in perspective. Now, though, I’ve been practically slapped in the face with these facts.”

“I can stop, if you want. We can talk about something else.”

“No no,” he quickly says. He knows that Martin wants to tell someone, anyone about his past. He knows that Martin wants to feel understood, at least to some extent. He’s unsure of why the boy’s chosen him to tell his incredible stories to, but he’ll listen to them, no matter what. “I told you that you can talk to me about anything, if you need to. Please, continue.”

~_*_~

Othamar’s brother died some time later and his son, Athanaric, took over the tribe from there. At that point, their family was growing too large for their household, despite the fact that it was one of the grandest in the community. 

As he wasn't the leader of the tribe, Othamar decided to be the one to take his leave. He took his horse and his ring and moved to the outskirts of the tribe. His nephew sent him goods when he could and in return, Othamar had Amalric tell him whenever Othamar got another headache. 

Life was peaceful for some time. Othamar chose wives for both of his children and they built themselves a large home to contain the entire family. Othamar’s nephew looked over the village and asked him for advice when he felt out of his depth. 

Years later, Athanaric had his first son. Othamar was thirty two years old when it happened. 

At about the same time, Othamar got a crippling headache, one worse than any before. He was sure that it signalled danger, that the tribe needed to move quickly, needed to move right then and there. 

Yet, Athanaric was unsure. 

His wife was sick following the birth of his son - couldn’t be moved. He didn’t want to put her in danger, but he didn’t want to move and possibly kill her. He knew of Othamar’s predictions, his father had told him in no uncertain terms that the headaches spelled danger. 

But usually that danger was to villages around them.

He was sure that they’d be perfectly fine. Just this once, they didn’t have to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I hope I've not made anyone uncomfortable with the marriage customs and such. I didn't want to go too in depth but I also wanted to properly set up the world that my Martin was born in. Again, all info in here is from my recent research. Should you feel the need, feel free to make any suggestions you see fit :).**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **And this is where the violence tag makes its appearance. As I said before, this ended up quite angstier than I was planning, so brace yourselves.**

Douglas looks up when Martin stops talking. His eyes are staring at the ground, blank. Douglas isn’t sure what Martin might be seeing but he can tell it’s not good.

He looks as if he’s about to cry, but also resigned, as if he’s pictured this scenario thousands of times over.

Douglas, for the second time in such a short period, is unsure of what to do. He feels angry at Martin’s incredibly stupid and altogether selfish nephew. In fact, he’s so angry that, were it possible, he'd raise the boy from the dead and attempt to knock some sense into him. That should say enough about what he's feeling; he's not a man that normally resorts to violence, especially when there are other, cleaner methods of making someone regret something.

Besides that, he’s also dreading what he's going to hear next. Martin had told him before - both months ago and today - that he’s thirty two years old. Douglas suspects that whatever comes next is what caused Martin to stop aging and realize who he is.

Martin takes a deep breath and catches Douglas’s eyes, seeming to read his thoughts. He nods and he continues on.

~_*_~

They had never encountered a tribe larger than theirs. For that, they got lazy. They’d found a way to gain items from those passing through and had created a lifestyle perfectly balanced between hunting and gathering and the far more sophisticated agricultural life.

No longer did men have to solely hunt to get food for their families. They were ahead of the curve with the use of farms and were able to become lethargic in regards to weapons and, most of all, battle techniques.

They were far more advanced than any nomadic tribe they’d crossed paths with. Yet, they weren’t more advanced than them all.

Their prestige left them prideful.

Because of that, they were taken completely by surprise.

The horsemen rode in wielding great stone weapons. Others, though, had weapons made of bronze. Spears and arrows, nothing like what the humble tribe had ever seen before.

.

_“Historians thousands of years in the future would say that the bronze era didn’t begin until about 4000 BC.,” Martin says, “but I can assure you that people had made bronze weapons far, far before that. They used them on us, without mercy.”_

.

Othamar and his family lived on the far side of the village, on the opposite side from where the band of killers had entered. Othamar could barely move with the blinding pain coming from his head. However, the screams emanating from the village urged him up from where he lay.

Amalric and Adelmar immediately gathered the two families, herding the women and children far into the cottage. They had to stay there, they said, they had to stay with Othamar, he’d protect them.

The boys ran out, running to the village with the few weapons that they owned.

Minutes, (perhaps hours later, time stretched on eternally at that point), the boys returned, wild eyed and scared. So scared.

They had to go. They had to leave. Quickly now, quickly.

Othamar was experiencing more pain than ever before, and no longer just in his head. It was everywhere, his chest was constricting, his vision becoming blurry. But he couldn’t let his family down, he couldn’t be the reason that they died. So he ran with the women, children, and men. They ran to the back of the hut.

Amalric untied their grandfather’s horse, a bit old at this point, but perfectly able to carry one or two people.

They unanimously decided that Othamar should be the one to ride it. There was no way he could carry on by himself.

He protested but knew that it was a lost fight. Besides, they had to hurry.

They helped Othamar onto the horse and after some debate, Amalric climbed on behind him.

The women and children were already being led on down the hill by Adelmar. They were running as fast as they could, the younger ones being carried two at a time by their mothers.

To the river. They’d meet at the grand river.

They heard shouts behind them as they kicked off. They couldn’t risk leading their enemies after the rest of the family so they went a different direction. They went at a full gallop, but the whooping and hollering never subsided from behind them.

Unfortunately, the grassland on which they lived didn’t provide much in the way of protection.  

An arrow whizzed by Othamar’s face, nearly injuring their horse.

He heard Amalric cry out and looked down through the blurry haze caused by his headache to see an arrow protruding from the back of his son’s leg. He looked up to Amalric’s face to make sure he was ok, to ask if he needed to take control of the horse. He found that his face was locked in the most determined look he’d ever seen from a seventeen year old, or that he’d ever see since.

He felt weak and pathetic but couldn’t do much besides hold on and allow his son to take them to the river.

They were coming up on the cliff above the river now. The only way to get down to the bank was to use a precarious footpath - something they couldn’t easily do if they were running for their lives.

Amalric pulled their horse to a screeching halt, turning sharply. The creature fell to its side and they tumbled off, sliding far too close to the cliff’s edge.

Othamar was the first to push himself up off the ground. He was dizzy and hurting everywhere. He searched for Amalric and urged him up when he found him.

They had to hurry. They had a bit of a head start, but not nearly enough if Amalric didn’t get up.

Eventually the boy pulled himself up and grabbed hold of his poor excuse for a weapon. Together they made their way to the miniscule trail. They were both stopped cold, however, by the sound of screams. Screams from voices that they recognized.

They turned around and watched as Adelmar ran hand in hand with his wife, carrying two children to the bank. A few feet behind them, Amalric’s wife was lying with an arrow sticking straight out of her back, dead.

Amalric cried out but didn’t look away. He watched his brother’s progress with his father. They both realized, at the same time, that it was futile.

A horseman rode swiftly up behind the pair and cut down Othamar’s daughter-in-law. The silence followed by the lack of her screaming was deafening. The horseman came quickly back around.

Amalric tried to continue down to the bank, tried to pull his father with him, but he wouldn’t move - couldn’t look away.

He watched his youngest son get cut down and fell to the ground in pain. His chest hurt so much, far too much. He couldn’t move. He urged Amalric to carry on, he’d be fine. Please, just go.

But he wouldn’t leave him.

Othamar eventually forced himself up onto shaking legs and swung his arm over his son’s shoulders. Slowly, they made their way down the trail.

They’d hardly made it ten feet when an arrow soared by, just above Othamar’s drooped head and into the shoulder of his son. They staggered sideways, nearly falling off of the dirt path. Amalric pushed his father off him and forward, urging him down the path. Othamar turned back, called his name.

And had to watch yet another son be cut down.

The offending horseman flew by at the same time that an arrow darted past, the tip scraping his head. The combination of both knocked him backwards, back off of the cliff.

Before he even had time to scream for his second lost child, he was sent hurtling towards the water below.

His chest hurt so much, he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes, allowed the darkness to take over his vision. And he fell.


	7. Chapter 7

“I fell,” Martin says. “I fell so far, through water and darkness. It felt like forever. Sometimes I think it was.”

He looks up, eyes glistening. His voice had settled into a quiet monotone by the end of the story, “I don't dream often, but when I do, I'm usually still falling.”

They sit there in silence for quite some time. Douglas knew. He knew that Martin had gone through a lot, had been through so much trauma. 

But not like this.

He never expected this. 

He doesn’t know what to say. And, he finds, he’s no longer disgruntled with that fact. 

It was so long ago, but time means nothing to Martin. Not to mention the fact that he was sent back to this bloody steppe this time around. How is this a sanctuary at all?

Douglas clears his throat. “You said this is where you grew up.”

Martin nods.

“Are we very far from that river?”

Martin’s head whips up, searching Douglas’s face. 

“You’ve never been back there, have you?”

Martin rapidly shakes his head. He knows what Douglas is suggesting.

“I think,” he clears his throat again, “I think it’d be good to go back. Especially with me here. For. Well, for closure. Perhaps if you go back and make amends, you’ll stop having such horrific dreams all the time.”

He looks at Douglas incredulously.

“I know it sounds silly, but I want to try. Please, Martin? It’s obviously a memory that still haunts you, even after all this time.”

Martin looks at him some more. His face shuts down to the point that no emotion is conveyed whatsoever. 

“Fine,” he says. “Who am I to doubt the wisdom of the mighty sky god.” He stands up and moves away. “Come on, then.”

The words are icy but Douglas knows that Martin only feels insecure: he takes no offense. He follows Martin through the dry grassland, occasionally looking up at the sky. At any other time he’d laugh at the fact that something so incredible is happening above him and he’s not watching it in favour of journeying to a river.

A quick glance reveals that the star is no longer so angry looking. In fact, it’s almost fully dispersed. He supposes that means that they don’t have much more time here. 

However, time has no place here. He’s known that for some time now.

Just as distance has no accurate measure. 

They arrive at the cliffside quickly. It’s tall - much taller than Douglas expected. He’s sure that Martin wouldn’t have lived through the fall if he was just some regular human. 

Douglas can see that Martin is shaking, that he’s upset about having to be here again. 

“You blame yourself for their deaths,” Douglas says. It’s not a difficult guess, but it needs to be voiced. 

“Oh now there’s an excellent deduction,” Martin quips, still not looking anywhere but at his feet. 

“Martin...”

“OK,” he explodes. “Yes! Yes, I blame myself. I blame myself for _everything_. I was weak and powerless. If I’d moved faster, they would have lived. If I’d forced the tribe to move despite Athanaric’s foolish judgement, they would have lived. If I’d, oh I don’t know, thought up bronze metallurgy they. Would. Have. Lived.” He runs his hands angrily through his hair and covers his eyes.

“I mean what’s the point,” he says, voice cracking on the last syllable. His shoulders sag then, the anger leaving him as quickly as it came. “What’s the point of having all this wisdom if I couldn’t even save my family.” He looks up at Douglas. “What’s the point of having been born as a human in the first place? What _fucking_ purpose does it serve!”

He watches Martin for a minute before he moves forward and wraps his arms around the man. He’s never much liked physical comfort but he thinks it’s the best thing for Martin right now. 

“I suppose the point is to experience all of these emotions in the first place,” he says to the man shaking with sobs in his arms. “Take your desire to be a pilot for example.”

Martin stiffens but Douglas can tell he’s listening. 

“You have the time to sit down and learn anything. You could _be_ anything. But instead, you chose to be a pilot. Why?”

Martin doesn’t respond so Douglas continues on.

“Fine, I’ll tell you why. You could just as easily sit on any old plane and fly anywhere you want - if you were a scientist or a doctor, especially. You could allow someone to take control, you could sit back and observe as they fly you to wherever you want. But it’s not the destination you care about: it’s the journey there. 

You wanted to experience first hand what it’s like to direct a steel behemoth to a single destination anywhere in the world, not really caring where that destination may be. You weren’t happy with just sitting by and letting someone take the wheel - watching the sky fly by as they took you where you wanted to go - you wanted to do it yourself.” 

He pauses and looks back up at the clearing sky above them.

“You watch these stars, all these explosions signallying destruction or creation, sure, but most of all you watch humans. Would you truly be content with living your life on some plane like this without knowing, truly knowing, what it was that you were seeing?”

Martin is quiet for a moment, considering. “I’m not sure anymore,” he responds, voice thick. He’s still shaking but has obviously calmed down. 

Douglas nudges him away, holding him at arm’s length. He meets his eyes.

“Every single human experiences trauma and death. I’ll admit, your spectacular bad luck has left you with a very poor situation-,”

Martin snorts at that.

“But. That’s where I come in. Me, Arthur, Carolyn. You have all of us, hell, we’re practically a little family in itself - _your_ family. Now you can’t tell me that you haven’t enjoyed your time with us, can you?”

Martin sobers up and looks back at Douglas. “No,” he says, “I can’t.”

“You’ve told me incredible stories. Your life, as extensive as it is, has had its ups and downs, I’m sure. I just want to know, Martin, if you would trade that - all of that - for a life here,” he spreads his arms out, encompassing all of Martin’s world, “all alone, but without all that pain.”

Martin chuckles and closes his eyes. He sits there for a bit, completely still, thinking over Douglas’s words. When he opens them, he smiles slightly. “I wouldn’t trade my life as a human for anything,” he responds. He looks out over the cliff and at the water below for the first time in centuries. “Not for anything.”


	8. Chapter 8

Douglas is startled awake by a pounding at the door to their room. He looks over at Martin whose eyes are open, but only barely. 

He nods to him and gets up to get the door, allowing Martin to sleep off his latest trip. 

He wraps a dressing gown around himself and swiftly pulls open the door to find Arthur and Carolyn on the other side. 

“Do you realise what time it is,” Carolyn asks. 

He realises with a sinking feeling that he doesn’t. He remembers how Arthur had apparently had trouble rousing him in the hospital months ago. Perhaps, now that he is allowed fully into Martin’s world, he could stay unconscious in much the same fashion. They could have slept for the last two days of the trip and he would have been none the wiser. 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he responds. 

“It’s three in the afternoon, Douglas! Arthur’s been going on non-stop about how you’d promised to take him out to lunch last night and when he gets down to the lobby, you’re a no-show. I barely handle you when you’re late for clients but to make Arthur wait like this is completely ridiculous.”

He breathes a sigh of relief at the fact that he’d only slept for the night. “I’m afraid I remember no such promise,” he replies.

“Yeah I wasn’t sure you would, Douglas, cuz you seemed like you were thinking really hard about something yesterday. We can wait till dinner to go out, you seem all...rumply. Kinda like Mum after she just gets out of bed,” Arthur says.

“That would be because I did, in fact, just get out of bed, Arthur.”

Carolyn raises an eyebrow and pushes past him into the room. 

“Oh,” she says upon seeing Martin, “I was fully expecting some woman to be here.”

“Really? And where, pray tell, would Martin have been had that been the case?”

She shrugs, “You’d have probably kicked him out. It’s unusual for you to sleep late, especially this late.”

“Yes, well, we had quite an eventful day yesterday, as I’m sure Arthur has told you. Now, if you don’t mind,” he says, indicating the door.

Carolyn harrumphs and leads Arthur back out into the hallway. She tells him to run back to the room before she turns a full powered glare on Douglas. He can see, though, that there’s something else in her eyes too. Something softer.

“Arthur told me that Martin wasn’t with you both yesterday,” she says. 

“That would be correct,” Douglas drawls, unsure of where this conversation might be headed.

“And he’s sleeping right now.”

“Ye- Oh,” he says, finally understanding.

“Yes, ‘oh’. He’s not. Well. He’s alright, isn’t he?”

Douglas nods. “Completely. He was under the weather yesterday but I think he’s going to be perfectly fine today,” he answers, fully believing it himself.

She nods once. “Good. We have a flight tomorrow, after all.” With that, she turns and walks back to her room. 

Douglas smirks and closes the door behind him. He’s startled when he turns to look at Martin and finds his eyes open. 

“Everything alright,” he asks sleepily.

“Perfectly fine, I assure you. Now go back to sleep. You still look as if you’ve been-,”

“‘Raised from the dead’, yes, I know.” He lies back down and closes his eyes. “Oh, and Douglas.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Douglas smiles and watches Martin’s breathing steady out. “No, Martin, thank you.”

He realises how hard it must be for Martin to tell someone such a personal story, and he’s grateful that Martin has come to trust him in such a way. 

He’s not quite sure he’ll ever get used to all these stories, to the fact that Martin has such an intense past. 

He sits down on his bed and watches the ginger man for a bit. He promised himself before, though, and sticks to the conviction that he’s going to be here for Martin. No matter what that might entail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **What would one of my stories be without a marginally cheesy ending? What can I say? I just love them.**
> 
> **So I hope you've enjoyed this installment. ~~But then again who doesn't enjoy Martin!whump?~~ Suggestions for further sequels can be made through here or [my tumblr](princesscocoa.tumblr.com).**
> 
> **Thanks for reading!**


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